Today I’m feeling rather productive in my productionlessness. My boss, however, disagrees.
the thing I love about futballers is that they’ll keep running at and trying to beat an opponent, they rarely give up.
It’s amazing how quickly and easily their joy becomes your joy, your joy becomes my joy.
And your body is the harp of your soul,
And it is yours to bring forth sweet music from it or confused sounds.
And the wind and pine combine to whistle a melody, but what of that melody if there were no ear to hear ?
and what is the mind, but the engineer of the body’s will
The above quote: Khalil Gibran from The Prophet pg. 81
Poetry is a celebration of life.
Living poetry is celebrating the suffering.
Poetry informs our very nature
it is woven into our existence
the saguaros of my youth —
in every word. I know some
who have chosen to give their
life to a company. Company
men they used to call them—
now just men.
I once had a boss with a
generator in his back-
yard. Sun draped mountain
ranges in every breath.
And here I choose poetry
everyday. What a cruel joke
the gods have played. Who
could wake up and go to work
and profit from corporate
spoils when the cormorant
flies over a rush-hour freeway
in the autumn twilight. Flies
across the glinting lake, and yet
no one has written it!
Poetry is like breathing; when attention is given an understanding comes up, seemingly, from nowhere.
The author is a poem and the poem is a blank page.
Suddenly I heard myself saying: it’s someone else’s preconceived notion of who a person is based on what they like. It’s a stereotype. And we don’t base Our Lives on other people’s stereotypes.
The neighborhood cat asks, is it friendly? just above my head the hummingbird chirps.